


Hetalia One-Shots

by ittybittytidbits



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Domestic, Drama, F/M, Fluff, Reader-Insert, Russia Valentines Day, historical-ish, sad attempts at humour, snow ride, sort of hints at current events
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-10
Updated: 2019-05-13
Packaged: 2019-07-10 11:05:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 16,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15948080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ittybittytidbits/pseuds/ittybittytidbits
Summary: Unfinished 100 Themes Challenge. Slice of Life, mostly Russia.Reader, a fledgling eurasian nation raised by China, elopes with Russia. Culture shock, domesticity, navigating the quirks of international relations.Import from my dA. Tags to be added as we go.





	1. Introduction

Chapter 1: Introduction

The first time you met him you were five years old. You remembered only bits of that day: being bundled up in bits and pieces of the warmest clothes a newly communist closet could cough up, sticking your tongue out to taste those beautiful white flakes floating down from the sky and hearing Yao's gentle laughter as he trekked farther north with you in his arms, the great house, being handed over to a stranger, crying, and...him. 

He came suddenly, like a snow blizzard. He made you drop the doll you were playing with. His face was childishly round and his smile uncertain as he watched you from the door. He spoke in a strange tongue and spoke Yao's language strangely. His hair was almost white and his eyes were the strangest colours you had ever seen. 

"Aren't you a pretty little one?"

You remembered toddling over to him, remembered his laugh as you patted his cheeks. Most of all, you remembered his soft scarf and the way he made you feel so safe when he scooped you up. He was so tall! All of a sudden you were on top of the world. 

"Shall we become friends?"

He never told you his name, but you knew who he was. You heard Yao say his name, sometimes in heaving, angry sobs, sometimes linked with cusses you did not even understand. His name was Russia, and the only things you knew about him were that he walked away from China and that his arms made you feel in a way that nothing ever had again. 

You never really expected to see him again. Or at least, be allowed to speak to him again. Until, of course, you had to run into him one day. 

China was expected to return very soon from a world meeting. You were standing outside your house, waiting for him when you spotted a silhouette in the distance. Thinking it might be your guardian, you ran right over, only to slow to an almost complete stop before that stranger you knew so well.

It had been over sixty years since you last saw him. His hair still blew around his strangely coloured eyes, but now you would remember that strange colour to be violet. His scarf still draped snugly around his tall frame, and you wondered if the scarf was as soft as you remembered it to be, and if his chest felt as safe as it used to.

You wanted to ask him so many things, and all at once, but right then, looking up and into his blank face, all forms of thought left you and you were only able to blurt out, "Mr. Russia, does your offer still stand?"

"My offer?"

You swallowed. "Do you still...want to be friends?"

He looked you over, and a tiny smile lifted the corners of his mouth. "You have grown prettier."


	2. Love

Chapter 2: Love

That one thing that seemed to get everybody's panties into knots was the very thing you'd practically never heard of. You knew of affection, of the overwhelming desire to protect, and of clinging, and that was about it. While you were growing up you saw Yao's people trample over each other in the quest for development, and saw your own people copy that. You saw the fall of orthodox Communist ideals in favour of warped capitalism. All that was old news. 

So it came upon you as a wonder when, one warm summer day, you were enlisted into Yao's special warehouse clean-up. A bunch of specialists in masks and gloves showed up early in the morning, all shifting from one foot to another, talking, speculating about the "condition of the goods" as Yao scurried around the house in a mad hunt for those old keys. 

"It's been so long since we last opened this warehouse, aru," your guardian grimaced as he unlocked the bolt and shoved at the door. The rusted hinges gave with a high-pitched squeal, releasing a heavy smell of rot and dust. You coughed, rubbing your nose through the mask you were made to wear.

"What are these, Ge? And why can't we just leave them alone?"

"Aiyah, they're bits and pieces Taiwan filched from the old palaces when she ran away, aru. She couldn't bring all of them at once, so a few of her people hid them here while waiting for the cargo ships. I've almost forgotten about these." He ventured inside and you trailed along. Stacked all around you were wooden packing crates stuffed with straw. Yellowed porcelain peeked between the brittle straw. At the far end was a large cabinet riddled with locked cubbies. You took a closer look. Ancient locks. 

"So what now? We're going to ship them back to their original homes?" You stepped aside as one of the masked, gloved specialists slipped by you, making a beeline for a group of those tottering, packed jars.

"No, aru." China looked at you exasperatedly. "We will transport them to the national museum, where they will be cleaned, restored, and displayed."

"But why?"

"What do you mean 'Why'?" he sighed, playfully flicking your forehead. "That goes without saying, Xiao Mei."

In a few weeks, you would visit that National Museum and watch the restoration progress. Some of the goods were surprisingly well-preserved, and were allowed to touch those, under careful supervision. One of the items that caught your eye was a long, faded silk scroll painting of a man and a woman surrounded by fluffy, pink peonies. 

"That is a scene from the classic, 'The Peony Pavillon'," your guide said. "Li-Niang dreams of meeting with her lover in the peony pavillon."

Your stomach churned with a strange heat at his words. You sucked in a deep breath, but all you could smell were the antiseptic of the restoration laboratory and the aged cloth. The sensation wasn't all that bad. "Dream...huh?" And a wonderful dream the woman must have been having! Her skin glowed with the same bashful pink of the peonies as her lover tenderly kissed her naked shoulders. 

You had seen that same red and white before...the white of Russia's hair and the red of his frost-nipped skin. He had that perpetual flush from being in the cold for too long, too often. His lips were a pale pink, too, dusted with flecks of deep red, as if he bit them hard enough to draw blood. 

You found yourself biting your own lips against the surge of tingling from the pit of your stomach. They were like...like butterflies. Exactly. The sensation left you feeling sick, but the feeling was so good you could hover in it forever. 

"...Most of the relics were smuggled to Taiwan when the Russian forces bore down from the north..."

You started, suddenly awoken from your daze. Your guide was still going on about the history and the fate of the rescued pieces. Once more, you glanced down at the scroll in your hands, feeling left out, thrown out, forgotten. Li-Niang and her gentleman were lost in their own white-and-pink world, and you...you were standing there, watching them with no small measure of jealousy. 

You put the scroll down. "Mr. Chen, shall we move on to the next piece?"


	3. Life

Chapter 3: Life

When you were growing up, Democracy became something of a fad. 

You were there when the Chairman died, and you were definitely there when the riots broke out. You saw college students throw red paint at the late Chairman's portrait, saw the ranks of soldiers that swarmed out with their baton sticks and tear gas and fire hoses. 

You were there, standing at the sidelines as the demonstrating party broke and people were shoved to the ground and cuffed. You remembered thinking of your guardian, who was mourning the death of his boss, of the man who brought him back up from the ashes. He didn't know you were out there in the square, in the centre of the riot.

When you were little you watched battles rage around you from a second-storey window, in the arms of your Yao Gege. When Japan Nii-san invaded, you peered from behind the broken slats of a bombed shed, hidden away from view, protected. You were never in the middle of the action. Until then. 

Oh, how your heart soared! The violence thrilled your sheltered senses. The cries, the screams, the dust kicked up by the stampeding crowd stirred your most animalistic instincts. You wanted in on the fray. You wanted to tear into the crowd. You didn't even know what you were going to do, whose side you were on. You didn't know anything of what was happening except that the Chairman died and college students were rioting and you were watching every single second of that. 

And then the fleeing demonstrators charged in your direction. A mass of bodies came straight at you, unforgiving, trampling everything in its path. You were shoved, stumbling this way and that until you finally tripped and slammed face-first into the dirt. The noise wrapped around you like a sound bubble. Someone ran right over your outstretched arm. You supposed you screamed. 

You couldn't see a thing over the mass of bodies above you, but the thunder cracking overhead split the air loud and clear. There were more shouts, more trampling, more stampeding. Your attempts to stand were all thwarted a thousand times over. 

Just when you thought it couldn't get any worse, it began to rain. 

You slipped on the fresh mud on your attempt to rise again; felt a hundred thousand somebodies use your back as a spring board. Gritting your teeth, you shoved yourself up on one elbow, grunting when a fleeing civilian foot connected with your head. The shouts gradually morphed into gruff words, and gruff words into a series of violent kicks to your stomach. You cried out, curling yourself into a ball and shielding your head with your arms. Brutal pain exploded on them. Repeatedly. 

Now it felt real. Now the thrill of inflicting pain had gone. You couldn't think straight. Your whole body was sore with the battering. Blood ran down one side of your face. It tasted kind of funny. 

You cracked an eye open. Above you, towering way, way, above you, was one of your guardian's green-uniformed soldiers. He was young, and his face was filled with hard lines and dogged loyalty. One arm was upraised, ready to strike. 

A final, blood-curdling scream tore itself out of your throat. 

A heavy thud came down next to you. 

A voice. 

"Little one," it said, frantic and a little maniacal. The owner of the voice tried to scoop you into his arms. Your head lolled helplessly. "Little one, open your eyes, da?"

You groaned. 

Something smooth brushed over your cheek. Blood. You wanted to throw up. 

"We're going home," the voice said. He chanted it like a mantra, and his funny voice and funny accent were soothing. "We're going home. You're safe now."

Your head throbbed. Your eyes wouldn't open. Something thick was drying over them. The nausea still hadn't left you. You sobbed, and a searing pain ripped at your middle. "Ge..." You were going to die. 

"You won't die."

Your hand closed around something soft and oh-so-very-warm. 

"Da. Hold on to my scarf. You won't die. Mother Russia won't let you."


	4. Dark

Chapter 4: Dark

Russia's face on his last visit wasn't something you would ever forget. His old smile was still in place, but there was guilt swimming around those purple eyes, and his leather-gloved hand was heavy when it came down upon your head in a playful pat. 

"Where's Ge?"

"Going over a few things," he sighed. 

"He always shows you out."

"Not this time, little one. Comrade – Yao – is busy. But you will be so kind as to show me out, da?"

You nodded. The breath you let out was shaky, and the air behind you felt equally tremulous. Russia followed you with heavy, weary steps. It felt like the end of something, your walking him out to the front gate. As you stared at the feet flashing out from underneath your long, ancient robes, you wondered if walking slower would keep the inevitable at bay. Russia would slow down if you did...wouldn't he?

You were afraid he wouldn't.

You halted smack in the middle of the gravel path and whirled suddenly, clothes flying, sleeves dragging upon the ground. The dancing fan tucked into your sash clattered down. "I'm learning how to dance. I don't know why, but Ge suddenly took out these old clothes, made me put them on, and told a lady to teach me how to dance." Your chest heaved; your eyes remained firmly glued to Russia's boots. "He said I have to learn to be a lady. But if I...if I become a lady, I'm going to have to become gentle and meek." Hotness bubbled up from the pit of your stomach. You threw your head up, holding his eyes in yours. "I don't want to become a lady! I want to be stronger, stronger and stronger so I can stay by your sides and fight beside you and Gege..."

"You will be strong, little one." His smile broadened. 

"Will I see you again, Mr. Russia?"

"Da," he said. "I have to see you grow up. And...I want to see you dance." A final pat, and he was gone. 

For the next fifty years you clung to that memory. I want to see you dance, he had said. If you danced well enough perhaps he would return. You practised everyday. You danced until you moved with the breeze, and danced until the winter chill bit through your thin clothes. You danced everywhere – in the rivers, in the courtyards of China's old palaces, in the midst of swirling leaves. Once you danced before the grave of one his most famous princesses and wished for one thing only – that Mr. Russia would return to visit soon. 

He did not. 

But still you danced. When night descended and you couldn't sleep you'd creep out to the overgrown gardens of your home and in the blackness think of the far, snowy north where lived a man who owed you a promise. Liar, you'd think of him sometimes, but you'd see his disarming smile on your closed eyelids and a pang would pluck at your heart and you'd realize that you could dance forever, waiting for his return. Your hips would move for him, your arms sway to that deaf melody. Before you knew it you'd be twirling, your skirts fanning out, your fan rising, dipping. That sense of suffocation would clear, and once again you'd be able to breathe. 

You could wait.

You would wait. 

And from behind the crumbled garden wall, a man with violet eyes and hair like the softest down traced the glimmering stream your weeping fan made. You weren't allowed to know he was there, but someday, he vowed, he would be able to step out of the shadows. When that day came he'd stretch his bare hands out to your flying robes and you'd dance right into his arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Allusion to the Sino-Soviet split. 
> 
> The princess' grave mentioned is the grave of Wang Zhaojun. She was renowned as one of China's four beauties and was sent as political bride to the Tatars. After she died, it is said that the grass on her burial mound remains ever green and that shepherds who lost sheep would find them at her grave. Young wives who wanted children and girls who wanted to be married would wish at her grave. Apparently, their wishes were always granted.


	5. Seeking Solace

Chapter 5: Seeking Solace

All was still when you stole out of your room. The winding halls of your home stretched onwards, red lacquered posts and dusty ceilings. A ball of light floated before you. You held up a hand to shade the flame. A bird cawed noisily. You flinched. Stopped. Listened. 

Nothing. You could go on.

As soon as you emerged into the courtyard, a tall shadow came forward. You rushed to him, candle bobbing, and were engulfed in the comfort of his coat. The scent of exertion clung to him. His breath was warm when it blew into your ear. 

He crossed the Great Wall for you. 

"I missed you, da."

"Stay tonight, Ivan."

"Run away with me."

Your eyes widened. You stepped back. "Run away?" 

"Da." Calloused hands rested on either side of your neck, caressing. "Didn't you always want to become independent? I will protect you."

It would be a lie to say the notion of independence had never crossed your mind before. You had entertained it at odd intervals and at times had even gathered up enough nerve to begin packing your things. But just when you were so sure that that night was the night to take your knight's hand and disappear into the northern mountains, your guardian would come into the picture. 

"I spoke to my boss," he said the last time, "and we agreed that it would be best to allow you to administer your own affairs, just like Hong Kong. You're old enough."

Needless to say, all ideas of escape melted right away. 

But now here was Ivan, with his reassuring presence and sweet promises of never having to steal away again in the middle of the night just to hold hands. He would help you become stronger. His armies would fight for you. He would defend you. He would love you forever. 

And then there was China...

"I don't know, Ivan..."

His grip on your shoulders tightened. "Think it over, little sunflower."

The deepest hope stared out at you. You closed your eyes. Your foreheads touched. "...Okay. I will."

At the end of one week you found yourself doing the exact same thing you did when he asked you that fatal question. But that night you were sure of your decision. You weren't going. There was no way you could turn your back on the man who raised you. You were staying. 

The moon shone bright that night. Your candle flickered. A shadowed figure stepped out from underneath a willow tree and your stomach clenched. Oh dear god, he was beautiful. You wanted to run away, wanted it more than anything. But you had decided. 

"Добрый вечер, принцесса."

Was the last thing he said before shots rang out. He crumpled to the ground. 

You screamed. The candle clattered to the cobblestone courtyard. The fire went out. You rushed forward, the moon's pale rays illuminating a path straight to your lover. Alarms were ringing all around you. Floodlights went on and a thunder of cocked guns and heavy combat boots filled the air. You cradled Ivan's head in your arms. He had one hand pressed on his chest wound. A red stain spread across the front of his coat. You tried to hug as much of him as you could, and your hands closed around the frayed edges of his scarf. Frayed, torn, and scarred by the sharp rocks of the Great Wall. 

"I won't die, принцесса." 

But you couldn't stop crying. For the first time since your clandestine rendezvous began, you looked at Ivan – really looked at him. It was only when you pushed away your glowing romantisations did you see the tiredness in his half-lidded eyes, the scabs on his hands, the twigs in his hair and moss stains on his clothes. 

He never looked more like a knight until then. 

"I'll run away with you, Ivan. I'll go wherever you want to. Anywhere with you." 

Then you heard that all-too-familiar voice yell your name. Within seconds you were torn from your lover. China was going on and on about intruders and how you weren't supposed to keep things like that a secret, that it was improper, meeting that way, that Russia was never to be trusted...

Russia only smiled. He had been dragged up by the collar, arms pinned behind him like a common criminal. Yet his smile wouldn't fade. When the guards shoved him to the ground and cuffed him, he let them. He smiled through it all, and he looked only at you. 

You were going to leave with him. The whole week he lived in fear that you would slip through his fingers like so many other past joys had. He was so afraid you would refuse his offer. Then you went and said the words that he had been too scared to hope to hear.

"...люблю тебя."

"я тоже..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Добрый вечер, принцесса - Good evening, Prinsesa (used as a pet name here)  
> люблю тебя - love you  
> я тоже - me too


	6. Seeking Solace

Chapter 6: Break Away

The sunlight that came through was not enough. The walls stank of damp, there was sheen of slimy flora over the topmost part, and they were crumbly. The mattress on the bed was thin and, you were sure, itchy, if not for your felt lined coat. The bed itself was painted over with rust, the chains that held it up so similarly worn that you feared that the slightest movement would uproot it from the stone wall straight onto the floor.

It made you think, all that contemplative staring through the dusty light floating down the slit of a window twelve feet above you. So this was what it was like being inside Ivan's head. It had to be. That's why he kept whimpering about being wanting to be free, about not wanting to be locked up, when he fell asleep next to you. 

This was what he saw. 

You shivered at the sudden cold draft. How strange that one should never see anything of the outside world, but the outside world could see one. When you closed your eyes and lifted your head to the light you saw a mess of a prison – writhing, dying bodies, frostbitten limbs huddled under thin blankets, fiery torches with the most acrid of fumes, and the slit at the top of the wall. 

Voices would drift down that slit, sometimes light and innocent, at other times academic and snide. There were no gruff voices beyond that slit in the wall. Gruff voices were reserved for announcing the thumps of rifle butts against bodies, the half-hearted begs for mercy, and, the most common, the echoing blast of a flying bullet. 

The cell was suddenly too small, too cold, too frightening, too everything. The clenched hands on your lap trembled. Tears threatened to spill from your eyes. 

"I've been there before..."

The light voice and the slight smile couldn't mask the nervousness in his tight grip. Don't go, he seemed to want to say. You're too kind for that. But all you did was stand on your tippy toes to give him a quick peck. 

"I'll be fine, Ivan," you had said. You wanted to get to the bottom of his fears. You wanted, once and for all, to vanquish them. 

But Ivan's scars glowed behind your closed eyes and you heard the echoing cries of a child. Your heart tore. All the ghosts of that damned place were swirling around you, whispering in your head, laughing at you, taunting you. 

They were going to swallow you up. 

"...Mr. Russia wanted to know if you were ready to go, Miss."

You gasped. 

Dusty light filtered down from the window. A profound silence blanketed the hall. When you were able to lower your head, you saw that the mouse staring at you from its corner was still there, still staring. And Toris, with his crisp, perfect military uniform, smiled at you, holding the door of the prison cell open. 

"He was worried that you might catch something in the dampness here."

The bed protested when you stood. "Yes. We can go. Thank you...for coming for me."

His smile broadened. "My pleasure."

The horror of the dungeons remained with you even as you progressed back up to the light of day. The castle walls were like the winding halls in Ivan's mind that you only got to explore when he was asleep. The empty stone walls with their shredded tapestries gave you the heebie geebies. Privately, you wondered if anyone was ever bricked into those walls. 

Toris' steady paces had your heart jumping in your chest. How much farther to the exit? Could he walk any faster? If you gave in to the urge to streak down and out of there, would those ancient ghosts haunt you? Would you be disturbing their rest? What if you ran in absolute silence? But that would be just as creepy. Pretty soon you wouldn't be able to hear Toris' voice and you'd feel utterly alone. What if you got lost? Oh dear god, you did not want to get lost. But what if you were already lost? You had been walking around for what – and hour? Two hours? What would Ivan think? Would he come look – 

A fresh blast of air slammed into your face full-force. You blinked, and were surprised to find the sunlight shining into your eyes. 

"принцесса!" Ivan was bounding over to you. "принцесса look!"

He ground to a halt a few inches from you and buried you under an armload of assorted blooms. "I found these while you were making a tourist attraction of the dungeons. They're for you, da?" He grabbed your wrist before you could even open your mouth and began pulling you down the hill. "There's a whole field of them! No sunflowers, but still better than what you insisted on seeing. I'll never understand why you would rather poke your pretty little head into places like that!"

"That's the last time I'm doing it, Ivan."

"So much the better!"

Russia was misunderstood. He was also childish, cruel, and a little too terribly innocent. He was scarred, he was battle-worn, and he was more than a little off-kilter. But he was also this. When you slipped your wrist from his grasp and stopped running, he looked back, uncertain, like an abandoned child. But when you intertwined your fingers with his and hugged him with your free arm, he hugged back. That huge Russian bear stood there and hugged you. No one else held you as tenderly as he did. 

Russia used to be scared. He used to be bullied. He used to cry and get very cold and he used to be very small. Russia once roamed the limits of four walls and nothing else. Russia used to get sick all the time. Russia used to be beaten. He used to be chained, and he used to wear a collar, like cattle destined for slaughter.

But Russia was now big. He smiled. He was warm. 

He was free. 

Everything you saw in the dungeons dissolved in the face of his smiles.


	7. Heaven

Chapter 7 - Heaven

A brief glance up at your umbrella showed that would stay waterproof for approximately five more minutes. The rain poured down in buckets. The puddles around your waterproof boots rippled. 

You were waiting for Ivan. 

Fridays were your days, when he always took the time off to take you around town. Those trips usually brought you no further than Moscow, but that didn't matter. They were your town days, just you and Ivan, with no phone calls, no paperwork, and no bosses to get between you. And then he received an urgent order to jet off to Beijing for a conference. 

You weren't happy. 

"But why the urgent meeting?" You had whined to Yao Gege over the phone. Ivan didn't hear you. He was too busy agonizing over what to wear again. 

"It was my boss' idea, aru," China replied just as irritably. "Aiyah, I'm running around trying to get things ready, so if you have nothing more but whines to say, I'm hanging up, aru."

"But it's not faaaair! Fridays are – Ge?" your voice rose up a notch. "GE?" But all you got in reply was a busy tone. 

"Not another fight, little sunflower?" Ivan asked, his head peeking in from the door. "Those squabbles with Yao are becoming quite common occurrences, da?"

You sighed. "You're really going to Beijing."

"Da. I'm sorry, but I'll make it up to you."

But damn if you were going to give up your special day just like that. 

...And that was how you found yourself standing in the rain in those hellish stiletto boots you saw so many Muscovite women sport. That ensemble was supposed to be debuted in Russia's home, in his study, where you imagined yourself sitting in his favourite armchair, the fireplace behind you casting a heavy, glowy shadow over you crossed legs. They were supposed to look miles long, damn it, and you were supposed to shut the thick Chekov you weren't really reading the moment Ivan walked in on your little theatrical set and coo, "Hello, Ivan. Took you long enough."

None of that was happening now. 

You sniffed at the cold, but flatly refused your burning feet's plea to seek shelter in the convention center's lounge. It would be heated there, central heating, and dry, too. But you refused to be found shivering on a plastic chair like a waterlogged puppy. When the convention ended, the first thing Ivan would see upon his exit would be a sophisticated woman, dressed like a true Russian. 

Now if only your legs cooperated for a little bit longer. 

Your thoughts were interrupted by a sickeningly happy sound. Ringtone. You fished your phone out of your purse, tossed your flattening hair – goodbye, professional blowdry and equally professional price tag – and breathed, "Hello?" despite the godawful tickle in your nose and the itching in your chest. 

"Hello, my little sunflower. It is noisy where you are."

"It's raining cats and dogs."

"But what are you doing out?"

"Oh, um...chasing rabbits from the strawberry patches?" You winced. 

He laughed. "Silly little sunflower. There are no rabbits in the backyard, only Siberian hares. And we do not have strawberry patches, Любимая." 

You cleared your throat. "Are you going to take very long?"

"Hm...perhaps. These idiots won't stop arguing, da."

"I...um...I miss you Ivan."

"Da~ And I miss my little one too. It's also raining where I am, so I am very sure we're looking at the same sky."

You couldn't help chuckling. "I think that line is better used at night, Ivan, when we're looking at the stars."

"Da...But I'll be home before the stars come out."

Oh, thank heaven. You didn't think you'd be able to stay smart-looking until sundown – A wet drop plopped onto your head, and another trickled down your cheek. Your umbrella had given out. "Great. Just great."

"You don't sound too pleased."

"No! Not at all!" Your umbrella continued to drip, and you continued to stand there like a goddamed idiot, still debating on whether to loyally stick to your resolve to stand in the rain, or to surrender and seek shelter. "This sucks."

"What's going on, sunflower?"

"I'm getting wet."

"How wet exactly?"

"Given a few more minutes, I'll be very, very wet –" Busy tone. Ivan had hung up on you. "Heaven hates me today."

A low, rumbling laugh made you squeak in surprise. Twin columns of dry warmth wrapped around your waist and Ivan's face suddenly touched down on your shoulder. "Heaven loves me today, da! The best part is, I'm willing to share~"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Любимая - [my] love


	8. Innocence

Chapter 8 – Innocence

Russia's troubles began with France's red convertible purring in the driveway of his house and France himself kissing your hand goodbye. That was followed by late night outs, sleeping in your clothes, lazy mornings, and frequent aches and pains. He brushed it all off as nothing more than coincidence – sick, daring coincidence. 

The last straw came in the mail. 

"Morning, Ivan," you bubbled, smiling at his reflection as you finished brushing your hair. 

Russia stood at your door, face stuck in a petulant expression. 

"Why the long face?"

His pout deepened. "Sunflower, I've always trusted you. You know that, da?"

"Yes. And I don't take it for granted." Setting your brush down, you turned in your seat to face him. He had both hands behind his back. "What have you got behind your back?"

"Is there something you're not telling me?"

You paused, taken aback. France had promised to keep it only between you two! He said it would be your un petit secret! Clearing your throat, you got up and tried to smile. "Look, Ivan..."

"You're leaving me!"

"What? No!"

"Are too!" One swing of his arm, and whatever he had been hiding behind his back scattered on the floor. Thick, shiny brochures, patched with all manner of pastel-coloured baby accessories glared accusingly up at you. 

You looked between the catalogues and Russia. Catalogues and Russia. 

"I still don't see your point, Ivan."

You thought he would throw up his hands in a rage and storm out of the door, but Russia only put his hands on your shoulders. "How do you plead, my little sunflower?"

"What?"

"How do you plead: guilty or not guilty?"

"To the crime of what?" You were sure that that dark rumbling sound was coming from him. And you were doubly sure it didn't mean anything good. 

"Just pick one, da."

"Um...innocent?"

"Just as I thought!" and his hand came down to ruffle your hair. "You're always been a good sunflower."

"So that means...?"

"A certain французский has just been convicted of seduction!" He leaned forward so that your noses were mere centimetres away. "That is a very serious offense. The perpetrator should be punished at once. Da!"

Your eyes widened as the realization, at last, dawned on you. You shot up from your chair, racing down the stairs as fast as you could to explain yourself. "Wait! Ivan! Why don't you sit a moment and let me clear things up a bit?" But when your foot hit the ground floor, all you caught was the angry blowing of the north Siberian winds and Ivan's sing-song, 

"There's no such service in Russia~"

If he gave you a minute, you would have told him straight up that those catalogues for baby products were supposed to be for France's pregnant poodle, and that your waiting up all night at the vet's with the same французский who was no doubt about to get his ass – and more – kicked was the very reason you slept in your jeans and shirt and refused to get wakey-wakey at the first bloody crack of light. Oh, and you would have said that France taught you a thing or two about strip dancing when you mentioned Russia in the same sentence with 'might find me too boring' and 'spice up'.

You groaned, muttering apologies to France with your head held in your hands. You knew you shouldn't have agreed to la surprise pour votre amant. You were mourning the loss of a friend so much that you didn't even look up when you heard the kitchen door slam open and closed and Russia's lilting voice above you saying, 

"The французский and I have spoken, da."

You groaned. 

"He's alive, little one. You need not worry. In fact, he is doing quite well."

That made you look up. Russia towered above you, smiling sweetly. Coat, spotless. Boots, a little snow-caked, but that was nothing new. Gloves, off. Hands, clean. Face, unabashedly innocent. "I thought there was no such service as explaining oneself in Russia."

"Da~ But I changed my mind after the французский said I should ask you to show me how much you learned." That was when you noticed all the black and white and lace Russia had over his free arm. "He's even lending you a costume!"

Cue a frilly, lacy headband parking itself atop your head. 

Oh, hell. In retrospect, you shouldn't have worried about France's safety so much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> французский - Frenchman


	9. Drive

Chapter 9 - Drive

The last time you checked, your economy wasn't in such a bad shape. That meant only one thing: your budding cold was a real cold – a cootie, a bugger, a mutilated shred of bacteria DNA, a virus. And it wasn't going away for a while. But the good thing was that Lithuania was so good at keeping the fireplace lit that the inside of Russia's house was as toasty as the outside of it was freezy. That, and he had an abundance of fleece blankets, one of which you wrapped around yourself as you settled before the said fireplace, sniffing your way deeper into misery. 

First day of the cold attack. It wasn't so bad. You might be able to knock its socks off with a concoction of zinc and vitamin C, with a side of your Kiku-nii's leek soup. But when the mere thought of having to actually get up to get the said zinc and vitamin C made you want to groan, not to mention the fact that leeks were difficult to come by in Siberia, you figured you might as well suck it up and take the proverbial bull by the horns. After all, it was only going to last two more days, right?

Wrong. When "two more days" came due, you were in bed, thermal clothing and four layers of socks on, shivering enough to summon an earthquake. Your nose was stuffed, you were wheezing, your head hurt, and your eyes watered. 

"Your fever's gone up again, Miss," Lithuania sighed, shaking his head at the thermometer. 

"It'll go away," you spoke/sneezed/coughed/wheezed. "Just don't tell Ivan. I don't want him to worry over a rinky-dink little cold." You coughed enough to make your chest hurt and your lungs throb. "Like I said: a rinky-dink little cold!"

Lithuania didn't look too sure. "Maybe that's not such a good id –"

The door behind him burst open, revealing a flushed, winded Russia. "Sunflower! I heard you were sick and rushed back here at once!" 

"How did –" That's when you saw the trembling figure shrinking behind him. Latvia. Figures. The child wouldn't dare to not report to Russia if his life depended on it. So caught, you offered a trembling smile and propped yourself up on your elbow. Ivan had claimed the edge of your bed and was worriedly feeling your forehead. 

"Ivan, don't worry. I'm fine. This will go away in two days."

"When did you last say that?" A thin smile ghosted over his lips. 

You averted your eyes. "Two days ago."

"Ah, what shall we do with you?" His hand lingered on your cheek, which, you had to admit, felt more than nice, even through his gloves. If anything, the leather made his hands feel so much nicer than usual. And the scent that came off it. It smelled like work, and faintly of gunpowder. Those hands could gather you in and shield you from the rest of the world...

You shuddered, and an involuntary mewl left your lips. All at once you reddened, remembering that Lithuania was still in the room and Latvia was just outside the door. But Russia didn't seem to mind. 

"You're very warm, принцесса. I can feel the heat of your skin through my gloves." A tiny frown.

"It's only a little cold, Ivan." Just get in the damn bed with me and I'll be fiiiine. 

"Nyet. We must do something about this fever of yours." A kiss on the nose. "And I know just the thing!"

"Just the thing" turned out to be a drive. You weren't too concerned when you heard his brilliant idea. In fact, you even thought he was suggesting a trip to the doctor's, which you had mentally shot down each and every time it dared creep into your mind. It wasn't that you hated the doctor's – no, that would be childish – it was more along the lines of you really being able to do without the threat of needles and syringes looming over your head, thank you very much. But the idea of going to the doctor's with Russia was a novel one. It made you so ecstatic you were almost excited to visit the doctor. Because there was no way in hell any self-preserving medicine man would attempt to heal you in such a distasteful way with Ivan's baleful smile hovering by.

Except...Ivan himself had other ideas. 

"In that?" You were completely flabbergasted when he presented you the...vehicle...the two of you would be...driving...in. "Are you sure?"

"Da."

Oh, god. The snow was swirling around you like a mini-blizzard and Ivan wanted to go for a...drive...in a horse-drawn...thing. A horse-drawn, open-air thing. As if you weren't already freezing your ass off. 

Sniffing piteously, you stuffed your hands into the pockets of your long coat and eyed the...thing...warily. "I don't know, Ivan. It looks like it's too cold for a sleigh ride."

He laughed, giving the...thing...a fond pat. "It's not a sleigh, принцесса. We call it a troika."

"It's a sleigh. An open-air freezer on skates."

"You're so amusing, da?" He held one hand out for you to take. "Let me help you up."

No. Oh, no no no no no. You were not getting up on that thing. You told him so. "Ivan, I have a blasted cold. A sleigh ride at this time of year is going to kill me!"

That made a frown invade his sunny smile. It invaded real quick, too, and tore your heart into shreds within milliseconds. "Would I ever want to harm you, sunflower?" And then he was pulling the hurt act. You squeezed your eyes shut, locked in an internal debate whose outcome was all-too-obvious. 

"All right. I trust you, Ivan."

He handed you in first, and then climbed up after. It felt kind of silly to be riding a red-painted, flashy sleigh at your age, but you supposed you didn't mind – much – as long as it made Russia happy. You were beginning to reach for the blanket folded beside you when Russia leaned over and snatched it away. And then, without any warning whatsoever, he pulled you onto his lap and wrapped his coat around you. 

"This is a better way to keep warm, da."

And he was indeed warm. You nestled closer to him, your eyes fluttering closed. The winter winds blew at you as your troika...thing...began to move, but you weren't at all chilly. In fact, the cold wind felt kind of good, like it was blowing your fever away. 

"You were right..." Though you hated to admit it, you had to give credit where it was due. 

"I am right about a lot of things, especially if they concern you, my little sunflower."

"Not really. You just lucked out this time."

He hummed, not really all that convinced. "You have to admit that if you just listened to what I kept telling you, you wouldn't be sick."

"No way. It was just bad luck my bedroom windows broke in the middle of a snowstorm!"

"возможно. But if you just listened and moved into my room when I insisted, this illness could have been avoided." He giggled; nuzzled the top of your head. "Then again, it's never too late to correct a mistake~ I'll have Liet –"

"I don't want to move into your bedroom!" Your face burned. It was definitely not the fever. 

"Ah...such a stubborn little sunflower." He tsk'ed. "Never mind. One day you will come to understand that mother Russia knows best."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> принцесса - princess  
> возможно - perhaps


	10. Breathe Again

Chapter 10 – Breathe Again  
  
The things swirling around your head were too chaotic for you to even be able to answer to an innocent, "What are you thinking of?"   
  
Not that you were likely to be asked that by the number of stony-faced diplomats and brocade-draped members of the Russian Orthodox Church. Not even by Russia himself, who stood beside you, expression similarly set in an emotionless mask.   
  
Your mind had been drifting off for quite a while now. You didn't mean for it to. It was just that...well, if you tried to pay attention to the goings-on around you, you were sure you were going to burst into tears. So you took yourself away from the situation and...floated. Yes,  _floated_  because the strangeness of it all didn't quite agree with you. The incense, the echoing inside of that ancient Russian onion-domed palace of worship, the chanting, the candles, the ceremony, the seven coffins up there in front for all the congregation to see, the waterfall of flowers...   
  
Hell, you were even unable to understand the things the priests were saying. And they were in Russian, a language you had determined to master the very instant you set eyes on...Russia, you supposed.   
  
Speaking of Russia...  
  
He flinched every time the word 'Romanov' vibrated through the white-and-gold church. It was a barely perceptible flinch, but it was there. It was a tiny scratch on the surface of his perfect, unconcerned facade.   
  
You didn't have to wonder what he was thinking that very instant, but you knew his stiff upper lip would put England's stiff upper lip to shame.   
  
 _"They're going to be canonized, little one."  
  
"Canonized?" You thought it was a rather strange way to display deference to the last rulers of that great, vast, empire...by... Well. But you were pretty damn sure anything that involved century-old corpses and cannons didn't sound respectful.   
  
"Da. After so long, they're going to Heaven, for sure."  
  
You felt rather sick. No, cannons couldn't fire that high...could they?  
  
"They'll be sainted, after so long."  
  
You sighed a sigh you didn't know you sighed, and Ivan threw you a funny glance. "No. No..._that _isn't what 'canonization' means."  
  
Never in your life had you felt stupider, or more embarrassed, for that matter. "S-Sorry. I'm...I'm happy they're going to Heaven..."  
  
"Da..."  
  
But he sounded kind of sad.   
  
"Shouldn't you be jumping for joy, Vanya?"  
  
"It won't bring them back, sunflower."  
  
Later, you learned from Ukraine that Russia had loved the Romanov children very much, and that he had been assigned to oversee the disposal of the Romanov bodies after their surprise early morning massacre. That meant he...he watched the bodies of two of those children he loved so much...violated...without being able to do anything about it. And he kept the location of their graves a secret, too. For one whole agonizing century.   
  
God, that's why he loved Siberia so much. You thought back to the number of times he left the house at odd hours of the day, returning home practically buried in snow...just to visit his sort-of-family that he sort-of-betrayed._  
  
Sucking in a lungful of air, you inched closer towards him and hooked your index finger on his little one. Russia looked down in surprise. It might have been sinful to display affection inside a holy place, but you would pretend to not know that, and gave him a tentative smile.   
  
 _I'm sure they understand. Don't worry about it anymore._  
  
His eyes widened, and then his clenched fist loosened to allow your own smaller hand to wiggle inside it. He spared you only a moment before giving the ceremony his full attention again. But not before he whispered, "They would have loved to meet you, my sunflower."  
  
"We'll visit when this ends."  
  
Russia stopped holding his breath after that, and he lost his frozen mask.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because no Russia fic would be complete without mentioning the Romanovs.
> 
> The breath-holding thing. I read somewhere that if you hold your breath and count to twenty, you could stop yourself from crying. It works the opposite way for me, but the royal families of old apparently swore by that little tip.


	11. Memory

Chapter 11 - Memory

There were things you didn't understand as a nation – especially as a nation. So the first time you saw a woman with a bloated middle, you tugged at your Yao Gege's sleeve and asked, "Is she sick?"

When his eyes landed where yours were already staring, he said, "No. The lady's pregnant."

"What's that?" you had asked, frowning a little at the funny new word. You tried rolling it around your head. Perg...no...preag...no...pregnat...no...preg...well, pregsomething.

"It means she's going to have a baby," Yao replied, rather impatiently now. He grabbed your wrist. "Come on, now. We haven't got all day, aru."

But your mind was already spinning, your eyes still stuck to the shrinking figure of the lady who was going to have a baby. You couldn't fathom how on earth she was going to have that baby. But she would have a baby, so babies had to be...had. Somehow. And babies grew up to become people, like you. So...you used to be a baby. So you were...

"Ge, was that how I was had?"

China stopped dead in his tracks. "What?"

"Was that how I was had?" you repeated, beaming up at him. "A lady had me?"

"Aiyah, Mei." China flicked at your forehead, which earned him an automatic glare, which he ignored with a roll of the eyes. "No. Only humans are 'had'. And it's not 'had'. It's called 'born', aru."

Ah! Like the baby lambs that appeared in the barn during spring every year! Born. Like lambs. So that's where they came from. "So I was born too!"

China sighed. It was a big, fat sigh that showed that he wasn't particularly interested in starting a conversation about that topic right there in the middle of the sidewalk. "Yes, but not in the conventional sense."

"So how was I born?"

"Aiyah! I don't know, aru." And he threw up his hands to match his frustration. "Countries just appear. And then they're found by whoever takes care of them, just like I found you."

"Where did you find me?"

"In a cave." He straightened, took your wrist again. 

"Like the fairy of the mountain?"

"Oh, no, aru. You scared the living daylights out of me." A tug. "Now come on. You ask too many questions, aru."

So you left it like that for the next half century. The question of where you came from was forgotten in the face of the communist revolution, and then the split, and then the cultural revolution, and the phenomenon called Russia thrown along in that fray. The mystery of your origin slipped your mind and stopped bothering you.

Until you heard of the results of Iceland's full body exam, and the nagging question slammed into you again, full force. It didn't take long before you asked your archaeologists to do the same. 

And then funny things began to happen. You expected the bruises that bloomed here and there, of course, and the occasional soreness on your back. But then you began to have dreams that forced your eyes wide open in the middle of the night. It was always about a spot of shining brilliance on the black horizon, and people shapes speaking to each other in a painfully familiar tongue. Once or twice you opened your mouth to try to talk to them, but the words wouldn't come out. As soon as you remembered the words you normally used, the people had gone, the glow in the distance had darkened, and there was Russia beside you, groggily asking if you had to kick him in the shin in your sleep every so often. You'd then apologize and try to go back to sleep, but sleep would no longer come. 

Needless to say, you couldn't wait for the examination to be over. 

The results came in the mail, in a big, heavy, overstuffed manila envelope. The head archaeologist had called you up a few days before, sounding very excited. When you had finished going through everything, he had said, he would like very much for you to drop in on an academic meeting that Friday. The findings were sensational. 

You tore through the envelope. 

...Immediately wishing you hadn't. Oh, the results were sensational all right. In fact, they were so freaking sensational they poured a film over your eyes and made you feel as if you just dove head-first into an empty swimming pool. Ah, it was so sensational it made you sick. The utter horror of discovery had you hallucinating again, hearing those faceless people-shadows speak in a language that refused to roll off the tip of your damned tongue!

"Ah~ My little sunflower! What are you doing outside? It's very cold, da. Look, there's snow on your hair, already. Hm..what's that? You have a letter?"

That voice tore your eyes off the page you were reading. Russia was running up the walk, running to meet you. Running. To meet. You.

The very instant his warm hands landed on your shoulders, you crumpled into a dead faint. 

It would have been nice to not have to wake up anymore. Because dang, floating around with the darkness swirling above you was inspiring. It was all very pleasant, if not for the strange talking and the laughing and the even stranger music swirling right around with the darkness. You could smell perfume...perfume that you couldn't quite place, and a sense of belonging you couldn't decide whether to sink into or to squirm away from. You weren't uncomfortable, but you weren't exactly comfortable, either. 

Just when you were deciding to lie back and savour it all, the music and the talking and the laughing were interrupted by spasmodic gunshots. Smoke took over the scent of perfume, a warm, acrid something dripped onto your face, and, the moment – the horrifying – moment you realized that the liquid was blood, you also noticed that the human sounds around you had morphed into an eerie silence. The only natural thing to do was to call out for those invisible companions. You opened your mouth. 

And you couldn't speak. 

You couldn't move, couldn't talk. You were only good for lying there, panicking. You panicked for what seemed like an eternity before the sounds began coming back. And then, bit by bit, you were able to distinguish smells. Strange, foreign smells, and the dying hints of that perfume. Smoke. Smoke and something sharp. 

You squirmed. It smelled so bad, like it was burning a path down your throat. 

Stop. 

Let me sleep. 

But you gasped. With that gasp came light, a throbbing at the back of your skull, and garbled words. 

"принцесса. Принцесса, wake up."

A groan. It was your voice. Murdured a hundred times over. Your voice...Murdered. The voices...murdered. Murdered, murdered, murdered. The voices in your head. The gunshots, the smoke, the blood on your face. Murdered. 

The sob that tore out of your throat was unlike anything you'd ever heard before. You longed to hear those voices in your head again, those voices that sounded so innocent, and so kind and so welcoming. You wanted to smell that perfume, wanted to dance to that music, wanted to plunge your hands in that pleasantness where you knew you belonged. 

But you could only weep as Russia pulled you to himself. "I know, принцесса, I know."

"They found an e-entire – an entire civilization!" you gasped through wracking hiccups. "Dead. By one hand...massacred. I wish I just –"

"No, no. They want to be remembered, принцесса. The dead always do."

Slowly, your ragged breaths slowed into shuddering, long ones. Russia's hand was terribly soothing, cradling the back of your aching head like that. So, so wonderful. 

"...Remember, but move forward..."

You swallowed, unsure. Just then Ivan pulled back, his thumb ghosting over your cheek, his violet gaze pinned upon yours. When he pressed his lips to your forehead, your eyes fluttered closed, and strength surged through you. 

You supposed...you could try.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Or how Country!Reader came to be.
> 
> "Ge" is short for "Gege" = Older brother  
> "Mei" (at the least the character I'm thinking of) = Little sister


	12. Insanity

Chapter 12 - Insanity

Your lower eyelid was this close to dissolving in a series of spastic jolts. Arms folded over your chest, you stood on the freshly de-snowed steps of Russia's porch, watching the poor three and the one energetic figure shovelling snow from the sidewalk. It was almost New Year, so Ivan had, once again, moved his entire household to Moscow, to be closer to the festivities. That meant you had to tag along, too. 

"Let me help."

"Oh, no, Принцесса. You might hurt your back."

"But even Latvia's shovelling snow. I want in."

"Da, but Latvia is not my precious Принцесса," Ivan replied, which earned a decisive squeak from the little nation and several harried, jerking, shovelling actions. 

You let out another loud sigh. "Fine. I'll just go back inside and make hot chocolate for when you all finish."

"Lithuania would like to help you with that~"

You froze, halfway back to the door. "Ivan. I can do it. Myself."

"Ah~ But you might scald those pretty little hands of yours. Besides, the kettle will be too heavy for you."

"I-vaaaan!" 

It was a decisive whine. It actually made him look up. 

"Da?"

Your arms flopped limply to the side, and you dropped down right on the porch steps. "Let me do something."

His cheeks pinked, smile broadening as he stuck his shovel into the mound of snow he was busy relocating. "I will. As soon as I finish with this. And I will finish this very quickly~"

The meaning dawned slowly, but surely, spreading a heat from your neck up to your ears, until you were practically smoking. "No! No, that's not what I meant!"

"But you have to admit it would be very...hm, important? Da, you wanted an important job, didn't you, Принцесса?"

"Nooo," you groaned, at the verge of giving up. Head buried in your arms, you mentally ran through all the ways you could properly explain to Ivan exactly what it was you wanted. He never allowed you to do anything useful. Make your own bed? No. Help with winter cleaning? Unthinkable. Stir the borscht? That's what Lithuania was for. Fetch his drink? He didn't need those silly little shot glasses, you sweetheart you. Ah! You could play chess with him. Oh, yes. Perfect. His clever Принцесса duking it out with him on the chessboard.

Hell, you didn't even like chess. But still you sucked it up and played every single time he asked, because the winner always gets a kiss and by god, Ivan would only checkmate your tongue right after he checkmated your lonesome King. 

Too bad there was no such move as 'suicide' in chess. A pity, really. You would have forced your King to hara-kiri in a heartbeat. 

So. You didn't have much skills to fill your resume with. 

"Ivan," you said again, lifting your head without really having thought about what to say, "I need to do something. Everyone's been working hard all winter long. I'm not doing anything. It's driving me crazy. I don't like being so useless."

Russia lost his smile. Planting his shovel even deeper into the snow, he strode over to where you sat, bending down so that you were eye-to-eye. "You're not useless, Принцесса."

The intensity of his gaze was blinding. You found yourself having to stare down at the hands on your lap. Ivan's own quickly wrapped around them. "I don't...I don't like being just the decorative flower shoved in the corner..." 

You were sulking, and he knew it. He pushed his face closer to yours, fingers on your chin forcing you to look him straight in the eyes. "You're not just a decorative flower shoved in the corner. You're my precious sunflower and nobody's going to shove you in a corner and live. Da?"

Oh. Oh, in the name of all that was good and holy! The checkmate tone! It made your knees weak and your mind fuzzy. You moved forward, closer, towards his lips, your mouth brushing the cold-bitten velvet of his cheek. 

"Da."

Ivan shivered. It the good kind of shiver. It was the kind of shiver you had always hoped to make him shiver. Despite yourself, you smiled. Now, there was the secret weapon. Sliding a hand up that arm planted firmly on the concrete step next to you, you tilted closer so that your cheek nuzzled his and your breath just tickled the chopped locks on the side of his face. 

"You know, love, you should really stop hanging out with your Alpha team so much. You're starting to pick up their trigger-happy habits."

He chuckled, a low, rich, throaty chuckle. "I'm not giving up my lead pipe for those silly toy guns, if that's what you're worried about my little sunflower."

"No...Of course not." You gave a little lick to his ear, "But you blow my mind away, my love."

Russia hissed, and the hands that were on the steps now found themselves in a bruising grip around your arms. "When we're done with this snow, I'll checkmate you in five moves."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Doing nothing drives one nuts??? 
> 
> This was supposed to be more fluffy than...well, whatever happened to it, but...the drabble wrote itself. I couldn't help myself when the chess thing came in. There's just something so incredibly sexy about swiping a marble chess set RIGHT OFF the table and-
> 
> Never mind. 
> 
>  
> 
> Принцесса - Princess


	13. Misfortune

Chapter 13 - Misfortune

It was known everywhere that you probably had as much – or even more – lucky charms than China had to offer. From beads, bracelets, pendants, and charms, to miniature hangings and complex knots, ranging from crystal to jade to onyx to bamboo to paper. You had them all. 

"Again, little sunflower?" Russia said, an exasperated smile on his smile as you tiptoed to hook a gold chain behind his neck. You had a similar one hanging in front of your dress.

"You're growing more powerful these days. This crocodile tooth should protect you from ill-wishers."

He had his own ways of dealing with ill-wishers, but if complying would get you to practically hug him, oh, comply he would! And you took your sweet time hooking that pendant too!~

"Do you need any help, Принцесса?"

"No, I got it." The hook went through and you fell back on your heels. Ivan straightened; cupped the tooth pendant in his hand. It looked extremely tiny. 

"This will work very well," he said, and tucked the little thing into the folds of his scarf. 

The pendant's novelty wore off after a few days. In fact, both of you had even begun to forget about it. Ivan was running around again, as per his boss' orders, getting everything set for the international talks to be held in Moscow. 

And you were experiencing the worst luck you had ever had to endure. 

Monday, the light rail you were on stopped halfway down the tracks, claiming "technical difficulties". Ivan smashed the windows and extracted you from that frozen lump of steel.

Tuesday, you were yelled at by your boss for forgetting an extremely important bill that was to be signed into law in an hour when you were so sure you had it with you because you stayed up all night correcting the thing. Ivan popped in five minutes before the hour, and saved you from having your ass kicked in the middle of a press conference. In full view of all your state dignitaries. 

Wednesday, rushing to work, you spilled a man's coffee all over his shirt. When profuse apologies and several wads of browned tissue earned you nothing more than a flipped middle finger, Ivan stepped in and snapped that finger backwards because "...how impolite of a Russian to flip off a lady, da."

Thursday, you were beginning to see the pattern. It took a prize mink coat ruined by the drycleaner and a new, snow white, seal coat lying on your bed to do so. That and Ivan's innocent, "So what did the drycleaner man do about it?"

Friday, exhausted as you were, you managed to climb out of bed, pull your disobeying hair back into a hasty ponytail, and slip into the state car beside Ivan, on his way to the international talk. 

"You look tired, Принцесса," he observed, taking your hand in his. 

"I am," you admitted.

"You shouldn't have come, then."

"My boss will skin me alive." 

When Ivan began laughing that malignant laugh of his, you knew it was time to change the topic. Clearing your throat, you leaned closer to him and tilted your head up. 

"Da~ We forgot the morning kiss.~" But as Russia shifted to pull you closer, a shrill squeal from outside had the car jerking in all directions. The both of you were thrown forward, smack down onto the wide, carpeted limo floor. Ivan had cushioned your fall, and as the spinning slowed to a complete halt, his hand slid from the back of your head down to your shoulders. 

"Are you okay, Принцесса?"

"Yes." You were a little winded from the surprise, but otherwise unharmed. Just before you could open your mouth to ask the same of him, though, the intercom cackled and the chauffer's voice came through. 

"Apologies, Sir. A press vehicle suddenly cut in front of the escort patrol cars. Is the Lady all right?"

"Da."

"And you, Sir?"

"Just fine, thank you."

"Ah. We are approaching the Red Square. In two minutes exactly we shall arrive at the venue." And then the intercom went off, just like that. 

You and Russia exchanged looks. "We should probably try to find our seats again."

"Da," he agreed. 

So you pushed yourself off him. And got stuck. You pulled again, but couldn't get farther than five inches off his chest. 

"It looks like our necklaces got tangled and got us stuck, da~" You noticed he wasn't sounding too morose about that. 

Neither were you, if you had to be honest. 

"Can you work through it?" You were so very near the convention centre. "We have to get untangled!"

"Nothing I can do about this, my little sunflower. I can barely see the knot, da~"

" Do something, please!"

Do something he did indeed. Russia used to humour all your charms and lucky amulets because he thought it was cute that you believed in such innocent things. But when the state car finally rolled to a halt in front of the red carpet and he stepped out, you in his arms because the necklaces were still tangled, he began to believe that maybe there was something lucky about crocodile teeth.

He scored a pretty hot morning kiss to boot, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In my country/culture (I don't live in the country of my...ethnicity??) baby boys are usually given a crocodile tooth strung with gold chain upon birth. It is believed to dispel what is locally called "buyag" which is basically when something unfortunate happens to a person who has been praised too much. In some parts of the island, there are people who 'specialize" in giving malignant "buyag"-s and so cause terrible harm upon their victims. The repellant is usually crocodile teeth pendants, or bracelets made out of a particular red coral. 
> 
> I took a few liberties with this obviously, and gave the Reader the same pendant even though it's traditionally only for boys. I just thought it would be cute that way. :3


	14. Smile

Chapter 14 - Smile

Your face. It was a constant source of amusement for him. Time and again he'd look at you, simply trying to figure out what that tiny upwards lift of the mouth meant, or what brought on that tiny furrow on your forehead. He loved the way your eyes laughed when you did, and loved the very curve of your cheeks, the arch of your brows, down to the curl of your lashes. But he adored your smile. 

Over the years, he had come to know the secret to making your every single smile. The light-hearted, "How is my little Принцесса today?" followed by a short peck on the tip of your nose early in the morning elicited a broad smile from your face. Silly jokes with even sillier punch lines brought on a fit of giggles. A snowball on the back of your coat naturally required replying with a mischievous smirk. Flowers made you blush. Very prettily, he might add. Arriving home would give him the pleasure of seeing your open grin as you rushed into his snowy arms...

Naturally, he tried as much as possible to make you smile, and to keep you smiling. 

So when he heard you stumble into the gallery at the west wing of the house, he didn't bother looking up from the piano. He knew you were watching, and ached to see the look on your face. But he would give you the pleasure of surprising him. Only when his fingers left the keys and the last timbres faded did he raise his head,

"Oh, hello, Принцесса."

Ah! How adorable you looked, standing half-in, half-out of the room with the most lovable of cautious faces. "May I come in?"

He stood to open the door wider and bent down for the customary greeting kiss. "I'd be honoured to have you."

Your face flushed at once – He was partial to that look – oh, so partial! – and you moved inside to hide your flaming cheeks from him. "I didn't know you played the piano."

"Austria does not hog all the world's musical talents, da."

"Hm..." A tentative hand reached out; settled upon the glossy black of the grand piano. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"You never asked." All of a sudden he was behind you, his mouth hovering over the top of your head, his hands fluttering, skimming your shoulders. "You like what you heard?"

A nod. 

"Shall I play it for you?"

No sooner had you said, "Yes, please," than you were lifted up, up onto the grand piano. Ivan sat himself down, clasped your hand, and lifted it to his lips. Your eyes locked for the briefest of moments before he broke the contact and a perfect melody streamed from the instrument. 

The vibrations came through very clearly underneath you, sending little electric currents through your palms and up your arms, weakening your legs. The music itself bounced off the cream-and-gold walls, sweeping before the ancient portraits ranged all around you, squeezing itself into the nooks and crannies of the gilt mouldings and thin cracks on the plaster walls. The sound pounded, reverberated, glided. It swirled down and swooped back up. Up, to the grandiose ceiling hung with a thousand glimmering crystals, the chandelier that had witnessed perhaps a hundred private balls. 

Rachmaninoff, as little voice in your head whispered. Ivan's favourite.

"Rachmaninoff," you murmured, and lay down. The music surged in your veins. Your mind spun with the romance. 

Rachman...

Rock... Man...

Man... Van...

Van... Ivan...

Ivan...

Ivan.

An arm slipped under your neck. Ivan's purple gaze looked down at you from above. "Did I make you fall asleep, Принцесса?"

You shook your head, hypnotized. "It was beautiful, Vanya," you said, though you could no longer remember the final strains nor tell when the concerto ended. But the music. Oh, the music!

He bent forward, closing the distance between you with a kiss. A smile. He needed a smile. He needed to see you smile that smile, a smile he had never before seen but knew existed. A smile for him and only him. 

The kiss deepened. He pushed hard upon you, tongue begging for admission while his free hand roamed from your cheek to your jaw, down your neck, over your arm. It found one of your slender legs, found the end of your dress and the beginning of smooth thighs. You moaned underneath him. He needed a smile. A smile. Not for all the moans of the world would he trade that smile. His smile. 

"I-Ivan..." your own arms wound around his neck, your body arched to his touch, but the tremor at the pit of your stomach only grew. It gained in size the higher up Ivan's free hand explored. Fingers trailed over your legs, higher and higher until he was brushing a thumb over your hip. 

You gasped. 

Smile. Please.

Tongue slipped in. The kiss grew sloppy. He broke for air and licked up your jaw. 

You squirmed.

Smile. Smile for me.

The free hand travelled.

"No, Ivan! Stop!" You pushed. Hard. He stumbled backwards and you took that chance to pick yourself up and pull your skirt down. Saliva glistened on his lip. 

No, don't look like that. 

He was falling apart inside, thoughts racing to their doom. You were never going to smile again. You thought he was going to take advantage of you, and were going to be very, very afraid of him from then onwards. You would never smile again. Never smile. Never more would he see that sunny face – 

"...I only wanted to see you smile." The words left his lips. His gaze was pleading now, and he was hunched over, that invincible man, cowering before you. 

Then you smiled. A weary, touched, happy, for-Ivan-only smile. And you opened your arms. He melted into them, leaning his head on your collarbone, holding on to you for dear life. 

"You could have just asked."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because my headcanon's Russia is horribly awkward sometimes.


	15. Silence

Chapter 15 - Silence

More than anything, you were ready. After all, that's what you spent doing the past few days, phoning your Kiku-nii, wheedling Lithuania into letting you use the kitchen, and then slaving over a hot stove for what felt like hours. And then there was the tussle with coloured tissue and cute little boxes. 

Yes siree, you were more than ready when you hopped into Russia's bed early one winter morning. 

Said nation, who did not much appreciate this too-early disturbance, grumbled something and made to turn away. At this, you shot up, dropping one arm over his shoulders, pinning him to the bed. He grumbled louder, something along the lines of "Leave me alone."

"Wake up," you said instead, breathing the words into this ear. "Ivaaaaan." 

A kiss. 

"Ivan. Wake up." 

Kiss kiss.

"Wakey-wakey-eggs-and-bakey~"

One eye cracked open and a thick voice complained, "I hate bacon, da. It's too Amyerica."

Kiss kiss kiss. On the lips this time, three short pecks. "Good thing there really isn't any bacon."

A lazy smile began to tug the corners of his mouth up. He shifted; pulled you down to himself. "Come into bed with me, Принцесса. It's too cold and too early to be up and about."

The offer was tempting, but you shook your head. "Nope. Wake up now. We can sleep again later."

"Why not just sleep again now?"

"Because." You said and shoved yourself back into a sitting position. Russia blinked up at you, his lazy smile widening. One his hands found yours and he gave it a little squeeze. 

"Ah, you're dressed already."

"Today's a special day so get up already."

He sat up, the sheets slipping off the thin sweater he wore to sleep. "A special day is one when Принцесса decides to move into my bed permanently. I shouldn't get up for that~" 

"Just..." You whipped your blushing face right around, but no sooner had you done that than a cool hand pressed against your cheek and you came face-to-face with Ivan's chaste morning kiss. "...get up already."

"Aha~" He kissed you again. "Good morning, Принцесса."

"M...Morning..." 

Eventually, you managed to creep through the still sleeping house ("See? It's way too early! Not even the Baltics are awake yet!") and out the back door. New snow powdered the freshly shovelled backyard. 

Ivan groaned. 

"Isn't it romantic?" You cut in before he could begin whining, flashing him a wide smile and holding on to his arm more tightly. "Just us and the snow."

His sour expression quickly turned into one of blinding joy. Then finally, finally you could begin your trek. 

It would probably be safe to say that the entire Siberia was Ivan's backyard. At least, that's what it felt like, walking through twig-like trees and leaving a long trail of footprints in the snow. You stopped to look behind you every so often, admiring the winding trail you had made so far. You enjoyed yourself so much that you would have forgotten the reason you brought Ivan out into the wilderness had he not asked.

Steps halting, you made yourself stand up straighter. "Let's look for a tree."

He chuckled. "There are trees everywhere, Принцесса. Which one do you want?"

"A big one."

"Pine trees?"

"No. No." You needed a tree that would give you a few more minutes to mentally review what you wanted to do. "How about...a big, fat tree?"

Ivan's face instantly lit up. "Ah! Like that one!" He pointed. It was a big, fat, tree indeed, its foliage sparse but still hanging on to it green. The thick branches were laden with snow. 

"Yes...like that one exactly." 

Once you were both underneath the tree, Russia looked down at you expectantly. "What now?"

"Um...close your eyes."

He complied, leaning back against the snowy trunk. You fumbled in the pockets of your coat, your gloved hands unsure, nervous. Eventually, your fingers closed around a tiny box. Jiggling one glove off, you plucked one of the round contents, and reached up. 

You couldn't reach up to Russia. 

Trying again, you stood on your tiptoes, stretching your arm as high up as you could. Almost there. Almost... And then you lost your balance and fell against him. 

Ivan's arms were instantly around you, steadying you. "What are you trying to do, Принцесса?" His eyes were still closed. 

"I...um..." blood rushed to your face in embarrassment. "...need a help up."

A chuckled, and he hoisted you up until your legs were around him, your hands on his shoulders, and you were face-to-face. "Better?"

"Better." And you pressed the sweet in your hand to his mouth. "Open."

He did as told, sucking the melted bits right off your fingers. "Chocolate."

You nodded. "Happy Valentines' Day."

His eyes opened. "It's not Valentines' Day until tomorrow. Plus, today's Friday the thirteenth."

Oh. Well. "It is too Valentines' Day today. Our Valentines' Day. Because...celebrating it tomorrow is too mainstream. So...so today, it's Valentines' Day. Just...ours."

"I can live with that." His forehead touched yours and he gave you a quick, chocolate-laced kiss. "My Принцесса thinks up the most amusing things, da!"

Embarrassed, you shrunk back, burrowing into the crook of his neck. "How was it? The...the chocolate?"

He suddenly seemed a lot brighter, if the abrupt straightening was any indication. "I knew it you made it!"

"H-how?"

"I could taste the love~"

You laughed, as did Ivan, the echo of your voices disappearing in the endless snow, swallowed up in the silence of the swirling white powder. He continued to hold you, flush against him, and you talked in the softest tones, the words coming through clear in the vacuum of stillness, that world of twiggy trees and a big, fat tree with snow-laden branches. 

Your own little world, your own little Valentines' Day. 

You sighed in contentment, the taste of the chocolate still lingering on your lips. 

Ivan was right: you really could taste the love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because Russia can also be hopelessly fluffy.


	16. Questions

Chapter 16 - Questions

"What?"

A cloud of dust floated up from the tome you had just snapped shut. 

"Careful, da. That book is at least one hundred years old." And an accompanying frown.

You frowned right back. "Ivan. 'Show me an old picture of yourself' did not mean this." You brought a hand sharply down upon the said hundred-year-old tome in emphasis. Another set of dust clouds floated up. You resisted the urge to sneeze.

"But I don't have too many old pictures of myself. You've seen the wartime ones and the empire portraits. The Tatar ones are lost. That's the closest I can show you, Принцесса." His smile was so innocent, so sincere, that you allowed it to slide. Gingerly moving the big cartography book aside, you dusted both hands on the legs of your jeans.

"Fine. My turn."

"Truth or dare?"

You stuck a hand into the "Truth" bowl, found a folded sheet of paper, and handed that over to Ivan. His eyes flickered from the sheet, to you, and back. The amused grin that kept breaking through didn't bode very well for you. 

"What colour is the underwear you are wearing now?"

You blinked. "What?"

He nodded, seemingly only too happy to repeat himself. "What colour –"

"No! No! No! No!" Scrambling over, you snatched the paper from his hands and read it yourself. 

"– is the underwear you are wearing now?" He finished for you. "See? I've memorized it already!"

"This can't be right!" Who put that question in there anyway? France? 

"Ah, but you saw it for yourself, Принцесса."

"I change my mind! I pick dare! Dare!"

"There is no such service in Russia.~"

"I'll take anything!" You were everything short of tearing at your hair. Dropping down onto all fours, you crawled over as close as you could get to him and shoved your best puppy eyes in his face. "Please, Vanya? Anything."

"It wouldn't be very Russian to deny a lady so–"

"Yes!!!" Sitting back on your heels, you reached backwards into the "Dare" bowl,and pulled out a piece of paper, which was triumphantly presented to a disgruntled Russia... 

...whose disgruntled look vanished as soon as he set his eyes upon that new piece of paper. "Tell you what, Принцесса: I'll give you one last chance. But you choose between the old truth question or," the piece of paper dangled before you, "this dare."

Dare: Do a striptease. 

Oh, holy mother–

"It's whitebluered."

"What is?" Those purple eyes sparkled like you just threw yourself at him, begging to become one. 

"Myunderwear."

"Ah. I'm afraid I don't quite understand. Would you mind speaking a little more slowly?"

"Old age. It's getting to you."

"Then you might want to speak up, too. Just be careful the Baltics don't overhear. They're in the next room, chatting their bosses up."

You flushed red hot at that, torn between cussing him or cussing him. But in the end neither won out. Swallowing your pride (and dignity with that), you shuffled over to him and whispered, "White. Blue. R-red." 

"In that order exactly?"

"Hey, only one question."

He waved a dismissive hand. "Related. It counts. Once again: In that order exactly?"

"In that order," you grumbled, hanging your head. 

"Horizontal, I presume?"

"This is related and counts too, I presume?"

"Da! You learn fast."

A roll of the eyes. "Horizontal."

An unexpected blush coloured Russia's cheeks. He beamed a big smile at you. "Don't worry Принцесса. I wear your country's colours too sometimes. On Mondays, to be exact."

"Really?" You didn't know whether to be flattered or to be disturbed. 

"No, not really."

"Now I wish I lied to you. It's not like you would ever know anyway."

"Oh, really now?"

Something told you that was your cue to change your statement.


	17. Ow!

Chapter 17 – Ow!

A white dash from the lower tip of the right shoulder blade down curving down and front towards the side. 

A ragged line, criss-crossed, stretching from the space between the shoulders straight down to the small of the back. 

A darkened bullet wound here. 

The reminder of a shoulder that was once badly busted. 

Long, encircling marks around the base of the neck. 

You pressed your lips upon them. Each and every single one of them, tracing the sometimes flat, sometimes raised scars, soothing them with butterfly kisses. Ivan would shiver. His naked skin would warm, and then his hands would stroke the ones caressing his similarly ravaged arms.

"There is no need to look at them if they frighten you."

A deep inhalation and you pressed yourself against him, your cheek on his back, your arms tightening around his waist. "I was just wondering...how much these could have hurt you."

"Don't worry your pretty little head over it, Принцесса. They're just scars now. They don't hurt anymore."

Exhalation. Your eyes slipped closed, hands freeing themselves from Ivan's grasp to travel over his chest. More scars, you were sure. Underneath it all his heart beat in regular thumps. Steady, calm. Your wandering hands moved to the side, crawling back down his arms. His hands came to meet yours, the right one gripping yours tightly; the left, holding it loosely. Your skin ghosted over fresh bandages. 

"Does it still hurt?"

"Not as much as when I got the other scars."

"Ah." Breathing in his forest scent again, you retraced the path your hands took, purposely lingering, taking the time and touch every inch of skin they landed on. Ivan had gotten so relaxed since you began your ministrations. "Vanya..."

"Da, Принцесса?" Even his reply had become low, slow, and breathy. 

"My love...just get that tetanus shot already."

He stiffened. 

"It's just one teeny-tiny little shot. It won't hurt as much as a gunshot wound or a sword slicing you to the bone..."

He swallowed. "I would much rather be sliced to the bone, if it's all the same to you."

"It's not the same to me!" You burst out, suddenly shuffling backwards. Ivan reflexively grabbed your arms, wincing as his left palm closed over your wrist. 

"St-Stay, Принцесса, stay." He pleaded, throwing you a glance over his shoulder. 

Sighing again, you leaned forward, forehead upon his back. "I'm really worried about that bite, Ivan. I don't want you to get sick. I'm really, really afraid of that."

He laughed. The nerve! But you noticed that his laugh wasn't the cheerful Russia-wins-it-again laugh. No. This laugh was stuttering and nervous. "I am that too, Принцесса."

"That what?"

"A...Ah..." Another one of those laughs. His grip tightened. "A-a-a...af...raid...af-fraid."

"Of what?" Curious, you peered at his face. But Ivan lowered his head so that all you could catch was the warm shade of red his ears were turning into. 

"Don't make me say it, my sunflower." The grip had turned into reluctant brushing up and down your forearms. He let out a shuddery breath. 

"You're afraid of the tetanus? Well that makes two of us. So hurry up and get the shot already!"

He cringed. It was a big one this time. So big, in fact, that Ivan seemed to shrink a couple of inches. "I don't like shots. I'm not getting one. So there."

You gaped at him, eyes (and probably mouth, too) wide open. 

"D-Don't laugh. At...m-me..."

Okay. Okay. You had to work out a compromise of some sort. 

"If you get that shot I'll kiss it better afterwards."

He remained silent and hunched over, but the gentle fluttering on your arms told you he was giving it some serious thought. Finally, after a few more seconds of silence, he spoke up. "And...a treat, too."

You smiled. It was too easy. "Sure. What do you want?"

Taking a deep breath, he straightened himself again and twisted around to look you straight in the eye. "Every shot I get is one night you spend in my bed."

"Wha—"

"Please, Принцесса? We'll just sleep. I'll be good. I won't try anything funny. Just sleep...in my bed..."

Ah, there was no way you could resist that voice and face combo he was pulling. But whatever. 

"Okay. It's a deal."

Maybe you would give him a good-night kiss for his pains, too.


	18. Rainbow

Chapter 18 - Rainbow

"Ge, what's at the end of a rainbow?"

"Your one true love, aru," he responded at once, a small smile on his face. 

You frowned. "That's a bit too much like those old fairytales. Mr. England said it's a pot of gold."

"If you already knew, why did you ask, aru?"

The frown slipped a little. "I...I wasn't sure."

Pausing from tending to his little garden, Yao dusted his hands off. "Well, what do you want to find at the end of the rainbow?"

You blinked. Gold. Right? That was the correct answer, wasn't it? In a time when gold was what your people needed, gold was what you wanted to find. Then again...it sounded like too selfish of an answer. A rainbow was something worthy of poetic thought; thus, a similarly poetic answer. But finding your one true love surely wouldn't help the economic situation any... So which was it?

Noticing your predicament, Yao chuckled. "The answer doesn't have to come now. Think about it, Xiao Mei." 

From high above you, he looked so sure.

Thunder cracked outside your window. Lightning had just split over a not-so-distant hill. It was pouring in sheets, one of Russia's terribly unpredictable summer storms, and you were huddled under the covers, unable to sleep. The rest of the house was perfectly silent. Cold, freezing, and silent. But probably not as cold and as freezing as your room was. 

You kicked under the sheets, sure you weren't going to get any sleep that night. Not after the trauma of having that very same window you were staring outside of, shatter into pieces in the middle of a winter blizzard, anyway. But that was all right. No sleep was perfectly all right. The storm would stop and sometime around dawn, you could finally get some shut-eye. And the following morning, when the sun came up, there would be a big, big rainbow across the sky. 

Imagine how happy that would make Ivan! A rainbow!

You sighed, turning away from the window to try to push away paranoid thoughts. A pot of gold, or your one true love? Economics, or romance that wouldn't do anyone good? You still had no answer to that. 

After all that time, you thought it would be easy to answer that question. But then sprung the global development race that everyone was trying to win, and you couldn't allow yourself to fall behind. On the other hand, there was Ivan, who was explanation enough. 

Lightning flashed across the sky again, lighting it up into a macabre yellow. The ensuing thunder rumbled throughout the house, rocking it on its bases. Rainbow or no rainbow you shot upright, scurrying out of there. 

Only when you were catching your breath at the hall outside and trying to keep from shivering at the tiny roars and sparks of after-thunder and after-lightning did you notice how cold the floor was, and how naked your feet were, and how fantastically your flannel pyjamas failed at keeping you warm. 

Go back to your room?

Oh, hell no. You would much rather freeze your ass off, you decided. To the living room it was!

Russia's house was not only cold, but it was also very dark. What else did you expect from a very old house, in the middle of a storm? Certainly not bright and cheery. Especially not when it easily could have been the middle of the night. But you did your best, feeling your way down, shuffling your feet and praying you wouldn't step on a wayward mouse. 

Step, step, step. The hall was ending. Your fingertips brushed along the corner. Regaining some confidence you took two resolute steps forward. And another, and another, until you were met with a soft glow. 

There, on the living room couch, was Russia. A small fire burned in the hearth.

"What are you doing here?"

He smiled; stretched his arms out. "I could ask the same of you, Принцесса. You can't sleep?"

"No," you admitted, only too happy to crawl into those arms and snuggle beside him. "You still didn't answer my question."

"Ah~ I wanted to check on you, but something told me I should wait here instead."

You fought the urge to blush. The blush went back the way it came and exploded in a hundred different giddy feelings inside you. He knew you through and through. 

Letting him wrap you with a blanket he had brought along with him, you stuffed yourself between him and the couch, stretching out like a cat. You chin landed on his chest, and your arms, around him. Russia wiggled down so that you lay on top of him. 

"Vanya?"

"Hm?"

You yawned. "What's...at the end of a rainbow?"

A pause, and then he chuckled. "Me."

You let this information digest, and then proceeded to wrinkle your forehead. "How come?"

Shifting a little, he reached behind him with a bit of difficulty and brought out the rainbow-striped cushion you had parked on his dreary old couch to "brighten it up a little" not too long ago. "Because I've been lying on this while I waited for you to come." A grin. "That's why."

You snorted; pressed your face back into his sweater. Ivan arranged his scarf around you. 

You knew you should have trusted your Yao Gege. He had been around longer than Mr. England, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure what Chinese folklore say about the end of rainbows. I just made it all up.


	19. Grey

Chapter 19 - Grey

Every couple went through them. It wasn't because there wasn't enough happiness. It was because there weren't enough fairytales to overcome the real world. 

Yours and Ivan's time came in the dead of one night. You were just beginning to fall asleep when a loud crash shook you back awake. Alarmed, you wrapped a robe around yourself and hurried outside. The Baltics were standing in a worried little huddle at the bottom of the stairs, right around the corner from Ivan's office. 

"What's going on?"

"Mr. Russia's home, Miss," Lithuania replied, sparing you a brief glance. The both of you cringed when you heard another crash from inside Ivan's study. Estonia bravely put on a blank face, standing protectively close to an extra trembling Latvia. 

"Is he meeting with someone in the office? Are they fighting?" You flew down the last few steps, on your way towards the shut door of the study when Lithuania caught you by the wrist. 

"It...it might not be very wise to...to see Mr. Russia now."

Your eyes flashed. "If someone else is in there, you can be sure I won't let Ivan be yelled at. Why are the three of you here, anyway? Shouldn't you help –"

Estonia's hoarse laugh cut you off. "Mr. Russia's in there by himself."

You blinked. 

"The election protests," Lithuania continued quietly. "The whole thing's a mess. Didn't you see the news? Riots and demonstrations across Moscow."

"M-M-Mr. Rus-Russia...he's v-v-very a-angry..." Latvia pleaded in turn, turning watery eyes at you and clutching at your robe. "P-P-P-Please, d-d-don't g-go in th-there."

But you had already made up your mind. "I can't leave Ivan alone when he's like that." And taking only that bit of innocent confidence with you, you shook yourself free of the Baltic's staying hands, pulled your robe tighter around yourself, and marched over to the study. The door wasn't locked. When the perfunctory knock went unanswered, you let yourself in. 

And the smell of alcohol assaulted your senses at once. 

The door clicked shut behind you. You leaned against it, trying to stay calm in the midst of the mess that was Russia and Russia's office. Documents spilling from the table, front pages of newspapers ripped, scattered on the floor, vases toppled, several picture frames cracked, empty bottles of vodka and the shattered remains of a glass. 

"Ivan..."

"Leave me!"

He was bent over his desk, the armchair behind it overturned. One hand clenched a severely wrinkled envelope; the other, a letter opener. His palm was beginning to bleed from the sheer force with which he held the blade. 

You knew you couldn't just leave him. "Ivan it's going to be all right. Can you please let go –" A shower of paper hit you square in the face. You flinched, just in time for the letter opener to nick your cheek. The blade hit the door behind you and then dropped soundlessly onto the carpeted floor. 

"I said leave!"

"Ivan, look at me please." 

"How dare you –" In his rage he looked up. The instant your eyes met, the expression in those purple depths changed from wrathful to shocked to fearful to pleading. Tears still streaming down his face, Russia rushed over to you, practically tripping over himself in his tipsy haste. Both his arms came down on either side of your head. The face that was pushed close to yours was so, so pitifully helpless. 

He really was like a little child sometimes. 

"Принцесса..."

So pathetic, so vulnerable, so blatantly honest with his feelings. 

"...I-I hurt you. Принцесса I didn't mean to..." One trembling hand peeled away from the door to shakily cup your cheek. "B-blood. You're bleeding and it's...it's my fault. Принцесса I'm so, so sor..." Wet came down upon wet. His bloodstained palm left a streak of red from your cheek down to your neck. Russia sobbed, his bowed head seemingly wanting to seek refuge in you and yet seemingly frightened to. 

Snaking both arms around his neck you drew him to yourself. He clung to you, leaning almost all his weight upon you. And you just stood there, holding him and letting him hold on to you, feeling his rapid heartbeat calm, his quick, hysterical breaths slow. 

"It's all right to cry, Vanya. It's okay to be upset."

"F-Forgive me..."

"There is nothing to forgive." Pressing a kiss to his tear-streaked cheekbone, "I'm right here Ivan. I won't go away. You can't scare me away. It's okay to cry..."

Much later in the night the Baltics would find you sitting comfortably on the floor amidst the mess, your back against the wall, calmly removing shards of glass from Ivan's hands as the man himself slept upon your lap. The blood on your cheek would have already dried, but it would still scare poor Latvia. You would spend a considerable amount of time alternating between laughingly convincing the Baltics that you were perfectly unharmed and shushing them when they talked a little too loudly. Russia would stir once, and it was only to cuddle closer to you. 

When you covered him with a blanket and settled down to try your best to sleep, you thought that these little slices of reality weren't too bad. The endless fairytales felt unreal. This was the real Russia and the real you and the real problems you stared down every day. 

And it was okay.

Even the hangover you would have to help Russia nurse the following morning. That was okay, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Grey" in this chapter is taken to mean something unsure as in "grey area". Russia's often written as an uncontrollable drunk, but I prefer to think that it's just because everyone else is just too scared to approach him when he's a bit shot with liquor. Besides, he's Russian. Vodka is "his fuel". He should still have reasonable control over himself even when drunk.


End file.
